Blood dashes to the surface, as if it too wants to plunge through the permeable layer of skin to brine. Heart opens like a young anemone, thudding brighter, brighter, flushing the body tomatoesque. Skin’s holding fast, bracing for blood’s insistence and the inevitable bashing of thigh against rusty railing. Lungs gasp. If other organs grumble at working that bit harder on a Friday morning in February, in rain, I don’t hear them above the shrill of upper arms, hanging like pale deflated arm bands, yet expected to stroke hard in 7° C. They do. They hate me for it.